Coming to Terms Part 1
Title: Coming to Terms Part 1
Authors: art_of_mayhem and candygramme
Rated: NC17
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Spoilers: For “In my Time of Dying” and “Everybody Loves a Clown”
Wordcount: 18,443
Disclaimer: Dean and his Sam belong to Eric Kripke and Supernatural. We own nothing, and we are doing this for love rather than money.
Author’s notes: "I'm worried about you, Dean. Don't you get that?" Sam spread his hands, helplessly. When next he spoke, he sounded much younger than his twenty four years. "You're destroying the things you love, and I don't want you to."
This was too big to post in one lump, so I've cut it in half.
Sam felt totally inadequate. He felt as if the entire world had lurched sideways and left him standing on empty space, and it seemed to have a distressing need to do that these days. First Jess had been taken, and then his father, and now it seemed as though Dean was about to fold.
The world had always seemed so secure to him. Dean was his rock. There had always been Dean; even when he had been away at Stanford, Sam knew that Dean was there for him, and that some day if he needed to, he would be able to call on his brother. Behind Dean, the solid presence, the bedrock of his existence, his father had stood, an overwhelming being, who made the world right just by living, broad, strong and unstoppable.
Sure, Sam had fought for his own independence. He had seen Dean give himself up in the service of John Winchester, and had struggled to stop the same thing happening to him. And now, John was gone, leaving an empty void, and Dean was so remote, so changed, that Sam couldn't reach him, even when they were side by side.
He didn't know what to do. He'd tried. He'd bared his soul to Dean, and it seemed as if he'd wasted his time. He'd turned away to go back into the house and brood, and he was walking away when he heard the clang of metal on metal.
Shocked, he turned around, only to see Dean destroying his beloved car with a crowbar.
"What the fuck? Stop that! Dean! Stop it right now."
Dean stood at bay on the dirt, chest heaving, teeth clenched tight, and eyes stinging from sweat and unshed tears. His throat was tight, his hands vibrated from the metal to metal contact as he stared at his car. The hole in the trunk was irreparable, much like the hole left in Dean's heart. It was gaping and bleeding, and Dean wasn't sure it would ever stop.
He glared up at his brother, swallowing the lump in his throat. "WHAT?" he snapped. "First you don't want me touching the damn car, and then all of a sudden you’re worried about it?" He stepped back and turned away to grab a rag, wiping his hands.
"I'm worried about you, Dean. Don't you get that?" Sam spread his hands, helplessly. When next he spoke, he sounded much younger than his twenty four years. "You're destroying the things you love, and I don't want you to."
Dean looked at the car, eyes dead. "It wasn't mine."
He turned and threw the rag upon it before grabbing his shirt and pushing past Sam, then stopped, turning back. "What about what I want?" Looking away, he kept walking back toward Bobby's house. He needed a drink, and he knew Bobby had whiskey in the house. Hopefully there would be a few full bottles.
"What is that, Dean? What do you want? Just tell me, and I'll give it to you, if I can." Sam followed him, tears in his eyes blurring his vision. "Don't shut me out; talk to me."
Dean stopped then and whirled on Sam. "I want you to leave me the hell alone. I want you to stop asking me if I'm okay. I..." He allowed his fists to unclench. "I want a fucking drink," he added, more quietly.
Now Dean thought he understood why their father drank after their mother's death. Dean could remember just sitting there, watching dad from around a corner. He could recall seeing his dad's head droop, seeing his face look so different.
So empty.
Dean pulled away from Sam and started off again as his father's last words to him echoed in his head.
"Yeah, go on,” growled Sam, bitterly. "Drown yourself in a bottle, because that's what he did. You tell me that he and I were too alike, but I'll tell you, Dean, I never yet needed to drown my sorrows in a welter of self pity. Not like him. Not like you."
Sam turned on his heel and stalked away from his brother, feeling as if he'd somehow lost his only friend.
Dean's fist closed tightly again, and he trembled. His breath caught in his chest as if he had been punched. In a way he had been. Sam's words struck him hard, knocking the wind from him. Dean turned in looking over his shoulder seeing the retreating backside of his brother.
His brother.
His friend.
Dean looked away, wondering when he and Sam had reached this point. When had they started pushing away from each other? Then, suddenly, he knew. It had been the moment his father had leaned down to him and whispered in his ear.
Dean felt his chest tighten once again. He turned back, knowing Sam was out of earshot, "Don't leave me, Sammy," he whispered into the wind.
Sam had headed back to where the Impala, with its ruined trunk, stood waiting. He understood Dean's distress, but he didn't know how to reach him, and that hurt almost as much as their father's death itself.
Sam wasn't like Dean; he had no real mechanical aptitude, but he did the only thing he could think of under the circumstances. He grabbed the wrench and set about taking the damaged lid of the trunk off the car, and then went to find another to replace it with from the countless dead cars that littered Bobby's lot.
Dean found himself a bottle. A glass. And soon found himself sitting outside again on a dusty hood. He hadn't opened the bottle, just stared at the glass as the sunlight reflected off it.
Everything seemed to have been taken out of him; he felt empty and drained. Sam was the only bright spot he could look to, but even he had changed with the death of their father, and Dean wondered who he was any more.
It was as if the wind that had been constant in their lives, carrying them before it, giving them direction with only a few storms, had turned into a hurricane. Not only stirring up the air but everything else below as well.
He set the glass down and stared at the bottle. He turned it around, the light passing through the brown liquid. He just couldn't bring himself to open it right then; he had seen his father drink, and even Sam had once said maybe if he’d drunk a little less things would have been different, better.
Dean got to his feet, grabbing the glass as well. He headed back toward the Impala then stopped as he noticed the trunk lid that he’d damaged was missing. He blinked for a moment as he spotted Sam carrying another black one towards the Impala.
Dean walked over, "Here, I'll trade you." He held out the empty glass and still unopened bottle.
"Put it down there," grunted Sam, still toting the large piece of metal. "Help me put this on, and then we'll both have a drink when we're done." Sam was staring over Dean's shoulder, afraid to meet Dean's eyes in case he broke down, determined to keep it together for as long as Dean did. "You can make sure I put it on the right way up, okay?"
Dean's arms dropped as if a sudden weight was placed on them. He moved away, putting the glass and bottle down then went over to join Sam by the car. He grabbed the wrench and screws.
He took one end from Sam, and the pair of them lifted it on and put it into place, lining it up. As he put the screws into position, Dean closed the trunk to make sure it lined up correctly before tightening the bolt, and, despite his misgivings, he let Sam do the other side.
From the house, Bobby watched the two brothers and sighed softly. He only hoped they would be able to hold it together.
Sam concentrated on his side of the trunk, watching Dean's sure fingers tightening the nuts, trying to remember how he did it so that he didn't make more of an idiot of himself than he usually did when faced with machinery. Slowly tightening his own side of the trunk, his hand slipped, and he cut it on the sharp edge, but he carried on, somehow feeling that, if they could only get this into place it would bring the two of them together again.
When at last it was fastened on he was dirty and disheveled, but the car looked as good as it had before Dean had taken the crowbar to it. Turning to his brother, he spread his hands. "Okay, so now we drink - together. You want to take the glass? I can go get another."
Dean reached into his pocket, pulling a rag out and grabbed(ing) Sam's hand. The blood was welling up, but at least the cut wasn't deep. He grabbed the bottle and opened it, pouring some on the rag, "I'll take the bottle, you can have the glass," he answered, busy as he concentrated on wrapping Sam's hand.
"You were always clumsy around the car." Dean spoke quietly as he stepped back from Sam, reaching for the glass to pour Sam a drink. He handed it over before leaning against the newly repaired trunk to take a drink for himself.
The whiskey was smoky and mellow, and Sam took a good mouthful, coughing slightly as it went down. "Here's to Dad," he said. "He should be here, but since he isn't, we'll just have to drink it for him."
He clinked his glass to Dean's bottle and took another sip. "You remember that clown? How old was I? About eight, I guess. Man, I was so scared of that sucker. Dad thought it was funny, the bastard."
Dean didn't say anything; he couldn't, and he didn't even want to. He really didn't want to talk about their dad. "Clowns should have been the least of your worries, dude; that’s why. He wasn't the only one to think it was funny, either," he managed at last. "If I recall, you also slept in my bed for a month after. Then there was the monster in your closet."
Dean took another drink.
"Yeah, I had nightmares about that friggin' jerk and his balloons for weeks after that. I was fine ‘til he stuck his face into mine and honked his nose at me." Sam shook his head as he drained his glass and held it out for more. "And I swear to god that there was a monster in the closet - I'm sure I saw it. I remember telling dad about it, and he gave me that stupid gun. Dude, what kind of man gives a nine year old a 45?"
Dean looked over at Sam, "You really have to ask that?" Dean poured some more of the fiery spirit into Sam's glass before drinking again.
Staring into the bottle again as if it would reveal the secrets of the universe to him, Dean frowned. "Sam," he began. "Dad knew you loved him. And even if you didn't, it didn't matter because he loved you."
"You telling me you think I didn't love Dad?" Sam set his glass down on the ground and rubbed his forehead. "Of course I loved him; how could you think otherwise? It's just that he didn't see me as a person - he saw me the same way as he saw you - as a weapon he could use. If I hadn't fought for what I wanted, I wouldn't have stood a chance of being a person in my own right. I always had the feeling that he didn't care about what we wanted."
He drained his glass and held it out again. "Hit me," he murmured. "Fill it up and tell me what you want, Dean. I wanna know."
Dean poured more into Sam's glass. "I meant you thinking Dad thinking you didn't love him. But Dad did the best he could, and he didn't see you that way. Why do you think he pushed me the hardest? Because he knew I would have to be the one to protect you when he wasn't there." He fell silent for a long moment and then took a deep swig from the bottle, while forming his thoughts into words, then shrugged. "Doesn't matter what I want."
"Of course it fucking matters. It matters to me, or I wouldn't have asked you." Sam frowned. "So don't give me that. Tell me what you want. Tell me, Dean - and while you're at it, tell me why you and Dad both think I can't protect myself."
"Why does it matter so much now what I want? Huh? Didn't before. It was always what you or Dad wanted," snapped Dean, taking another drink. More was poured into Sam's glass, and his brother matched him, drink for drink. "I want Dad back. I want us all to be together. Everything to be like it was." Dean drank again and didn’t say that he wished his father hadn't told him what he had. Which brought him to the vexed question of why Sam needed to be protected. "We knew you could take care of yourself, Sam. It's the other things that you don't see coming that we do. Sammy, that thing, that demon wants you. But it's not going to happen."
"You're right, it's not." Sam looked belligerent as he lifted the glass to his lips again. "You don't care about me anyway. I'm just a chore that Dad left for you to do." Easy tears sprang to his eyes. "You complain because I had what I wanted. I fought to get that for myself, but I don't have it now, do I? So why are you still so fucking jealous?"
Dean turned his head to Sam. "You don't get it, because you’re so damn, fucking selfish." Dean pushed away from the car and stood before Sam. "Everything I did was for you and Dad. I didn't complain once. I gave up everything I ever wanted to do, because of you two, and all I fucking was to Dad was a babysitter. And to you... I came and got you from school, because I didn't want to find dad alone. I told you that. But you... you just wanted the hunt to end. Kill the demon and go back to school. Now after Dad's death, all that just changes. You two butted heads, screamed at each other all the time. I've been trying to get you back into this, and all it takes is Dad's death?"
"If anyone doesn't care... it's you, Sam."
“You don’t play fair!" Sam clenched his fists, angry now. "I never asked you to give up everything you wanted. You did it. I didn't get a choice in the matter, did I; how could I? I was only a baby. Now you’re blaming me? How the fuck do you manage to work that out?"
He drew in a deep breath. "And I came with you to find Dad. I came with you, and I'm still with you. But you, you keep making up rules that only you know, and woe betide me, if I happen to break them."
He took a drink from his glass, angry spots of red on his cheeks indicating his anger. "And yeah, we butted heads. The last time was because he wanted to fuck around summoning the demon when you were dying, as if you didn't matter. If he could summon the demon, why didn't he do it years ago and put us all out of our misery? We could both have had the lives we wanted then."
"You weren't a baby all your life, Sam and the only reason is because Dad and I made sure you were safe. Because we couldn't stand to lose you. Because we loved you." Dean backed up as Sam took his drink.
"You still don't see it do you, Sam. Did you bother to think Dad didn't because he wasn't ready? Because he didn't want to bring it to him till he knew he could kill it?"
"Well, he didn't, did he?" Sam was crying now, tears coursing down his cheeks unnoticed. "He summoned it, and it killed him, and he didn't give a flying fuck about you, or me, or any of it."
He dropped to the ground, suddenly no longer caring about facing off with Dean, and sat leaning his back against the door panel. "I know he summoned the fucking thing. Bobby told me what the stuff he wanted was for, and anyway, where's the Colt that's supposed to be our one way of killing the cursed thing? I know what he did."
Dean stood looking down at Sam. He then turned and sighed as he sat down. "What did he do, Sam?" He looked at him, his face stricken. "What do you think he did?"
Sighing, Sam looked at his brother. His eyes were beginning to grow hazy with the alcohol he'd consumed, and his words were starting to slur a little, but he leant forward earnestly and began to talk. "He gave me a list of stuff to get him, and told me it was for banishing demons. Bobby took one look at it and asked me why Dad was trying to summon one. He lied to me, Dean. He did. I yelled at him for wanting to fuck around with demons while you were at death's door. You died, once, I saw it. They had to revive you, but he didn't care. He didn't care; he just... went off... and did it."
The last few words were muffled by sobs, and he put his hands to his face, suddenly feeling naked under Dean's hostile gaze.
"Banishing or protection?" Dean mused. Of course, what difference did it make? Sam was right; their father had lied. "You know dad has his..." Dean sat down in the dirt as well. "He... he didn't try to..." He took another deep drink. He was tempted to tell Sam what their father had whispered to him, but... Dean looked up, surprised by the pools of black shadow that surrounded them, the sun had long since set and neither brother had noticed. "He was a bastard at times wasn't he? All he cared about was revenge."
"I wish I knew what he cared for." Sam shrugged, tilted his glass to his lips and sipped the liquor, wincing as he swallowed. "I mean, why's he go on 'bout protecting me an' takin' care o' me, an' he never tol' me t' take care o' you. Din't say, 'take care o 'Dean,' an' I wan' ask him why."
Dean stared out at the yard with its unfamiliar shapes and looming hulks of metal before looking down again, the rim of the bottle glistening from his spit and liquor mixed. He tipped it back up to his lips, feeling the burn as he drank a healthy swallow. His head was already swimming, and the drunken fog had settled in.
"He cared, Sammy," Dean paused, "You were his baby. His youngest. I... I didn't need protecting 'cause I always did what he said. Asked. I wasn't like you, Sam." So what if he’d nearly died... twice. Dean had always known that Sam... his brother had been special. Not just because of his abilities but special to his father for some other reason as well.
God he was so mixed up. He suddenly banged the back of his head on the car in frustration.
"Don't!" Sam's head jerked around to study his brother. "Please don' hurt yourself any more, Dean." He reached out, fingers sliding into short, soft hair to rub the place where he'd banged it. "Don't wan' you to hurt y'self. Don' want you to hurt th' car. Love you. We're all we got left, now. Jus' you, me, n' the car."
Dean pulled his head away a bit, the pain had felt good, and it gave him the sharpness he needed to notice that his brother was drunk.
He pushed up. "I'm fine." Reaching down, Dean hooked an arm under Sam and pulled him up. "Let's not sit on the dirt, Back seat is fine." Dean pulled Sam's stumbling form around and guided him into the back seat reflecting wryly that at least he didn't have to open the door for that side.
He climbed in as well, slumping down as he took another drink. "The car... damn fuckin' thing."
"You love the car." Sam was vehement in his assertion. "'S your baby. You can't hurt your baby. Wouldn't be right." He looked forlorn. "You got a car t' love, an' me, I ain't got anythin' any more. Don't got a car, or Jess, or even anythin'. Jus' me."
He sat in silence, turning his glass around and around and then suddenly turned to Dean. "You realize I grew up in thish... this car? S'my home. S'our home."
Dean really wanted to reach over and punch his little brother for his words. Instead his face tightened up in anger, and he turned his head towards Sam to speak to him.
"That's a bunch of shit, and you know it, you little pissant. You got me. You got me to love but... I'm not Dad. I'm not Jess. I'm nothin' apparently." He pushed out of the back seat, nearly falling onto his ass, "S'yer home, well it's perfect. J'st like us. Broken. I'm left to pick up the fuckin' pieces."
"You don' love me. M' jus' a thing t'you - some duty thing that you gotta protect. People don' love things, do they? They love people." Sam followed Dean out of the car and stood swaying before him. "You resent me. You jus' want me t'do what you want, an' tha's all, an' I don' know anythin' any more."
Dean stared at his brother. He didn't know how long, possibly just a few breaths. Then the world seemed to move in slow motion. Dean's fist drew back, and before he could stop the action, Dean felt it connect with his brother's jaw.
Dean backed up, looking down at his brother, "You bastard. Yer j'st like... like HIM!" He shouted the last words. "Only thinkin of yerself. Poor me. It's all 'bout me. Protect Sammy, he said. Not, I love you son. J'st take care of yer ass."
Staggering back, Sam would have fallen if not for the car behind him. As it was, he smacked into it and half stood, half lay against it, feeling his jaw. "But I love you, an' that doesn't fuckin' count, does it? Cos... cos I'm a thing an' not a person t'you. Jus'... a Chinese obligation."
Sam spat a little blood and glared at his brother. "An' you wanna hurt me, so go on, 'f it makes you feel better."
Dean rushed in, pinning Sam to the car, "You know why I did the things I did? Because of you, Sam. BECAUSE OF FUCKIN' YOU! I gave up everything for you the moment I carried you out of that house. I promised I would always protect you, but you... you didn't care. Didn't even see. Didn't even bother to see. Not you. Not DAD! You two... it was just what you wanted. But what about ME!"
"The first chance you got you ditched me. Left me. Pfft... gone." Dean stepped back, his hands waving. "Dad... same thing. No goodbye, son, see you around, jus’ gone. Now all I have left is his damn, fucking car. And the only reason he gave it to me was to get rid of me. But what do you fuckin' care? What do you care it's all I have left of Dad to hold onto?"
"Get off me!" Sam shook his head, trying to clear it. "You're full of shit! How the fuck could I see anything when I was a baby? How the fuck could I see anything but you? You did everythin' an' I didn't know any different, except other kids had moms an' houses an' stuff, an' I couldn't."
Sam shoved Dean, pushing him back. "I never asked you to do it for me, an' if you didn't even want to, why did you bother?" He was shaking with anger now, and he pulled his own hand into a fist, ready to strike out. "And why do I have to follow you to prove that I love you? Why couldn't we both do what we wanted? You wanna hunt. I wanna go to school, but you say if I love you I can't do that. That's how you see it, isn't it?"
Dean stumbled back, hand going back to the car to steady his legs. He was still glaring at his brother,
"I did it because I loved you, asshole," Dean snapped back. "I did... You know what, forget it. Just forget it. Do what you want, Sam."
Dean turned to walk away, but then whirled around, grabbed his drunken brother by the front of his shirt, fingers twisting in it, before he jerked him close and kissed him, hard. Dean's mouth worked against Sam's, letting every emotion he’d tried so hard to keep deep inside him show.
Just as quickly, he pulled away, pushing his brother back as he did so. He glared at Sam, before grabbing the bottle from the ground and began to walk away.
"What the fuck?" Sam pushed away from the car, reached to grab Dean's shoulder and almost knocked them both off their feet. "Wha' you do that for?" he asked, looking utterly baffled. "Don' leave me 'lone. Need m'big brother."
Arms wide, Sam enveloped Dean in an all-encompassing hug. "You 'n me, Dean. 'Sall we got."
"Damnit, Sam," Dean grumbled and tried to keep them both from falling over. He made a face as Sam wrapped his arms around him, squirming a little as he tried to break free of Sam’s hold. "Let go of me." Dean tried to push Sam away, but the two ended up falling over, driving the air from his lungs as Dean ended up under his gigantic brother. "Dude, get off me."
Dean tried to push Sam off. He knew he shouldn't have kissed Sam, but hopefully his little brother would be too drunk and hung over to remember it. "Okay, okay, enough of the hugging already! You’re gonna use up my quota for the year."
"Don' wanna." Sam continued to squeeze Dean against him, long arms wrapped tightly around him, pinning his arms to his sides, still swaying slightly as Dean struggled. "'F I let you go, you're gonna run an' leave me 'lone. Don' wanna be all alone."
A stray tear trickled down Sam's cheek and plopped onto his brother's shoulder. "You 'n me, Deano. We're th' two musketeers. Don' got anyone else. 'Sides, you 'n me rock, wi' real rock salt. Tha's good stuff, right there."
Dean had his head turned away, still making a face, but his struggles had ceased. His arms folded at the elbow, resting his hands upon Sam's side. "In my state, I would be lucky to run." his head bumped Sam's as the two wobbled again, "More like Heckle and Jeckle, Chip and Dale,"
Leaning back, Dean looked at Sam, "Dude, you crying on my shoulder? Don't. Don't cry, Sammy," The last part was spoken very softly.
"But you... you don' love me any more." Sam gazed forlornly at his brother. "Y'mad at me, an' I din' do anythin' wrong."
He made as if to let go of Dean and wobbled alarmingly, grabbing hold of him again in an effort to stay on his feet.
"Don' know how t' stop."
Dean rolled his eyes, about to answer his brother when he felt him wobble. Grabbing him up against him to keep him from falling, Dean crushed their bodies together. He regretted it the moment he did, because he figured that Sam would surely feel the lump in his pants and know that it wasn't his knife or his keys.
"Let's get you into the house, down on your back and sleeping, dude. You'll feel better in the morning."
"Don' wanna sleep," protested Sam. "Wanna stay here an' be with my Deano."
Sam suddenly clapped both hands to Dean's cheeks and applied a huge, smacking kiss to the astonished Dean's lips. "My Deano," he said, looking at his brother with glazed eyes and he teared up all over again. "Don' run away from me. Need you."
Dean blinked as another wave of grogginess from the whiskey tried to wash over him, flinching as his lips received a sloppy, puckered kiss from his brother.
"Sam, I'm not going anywhere and... you don't need me, you never did," Dean whispered out the last part as he tried to shuffle them over closer to the back seat, where he hoped he could possibly get his brother to spread out. His feet shuffled in the dirt ‘til he finally succeeded in getting them where he wanted to be, and he promptly fell forward, sending them both into the back of the car, with him on top.
"Do too need you." Sam was vehement, his long, bony finger pointing up the message by beating a tattoo on Dean's chest. "Need you all the time."
He uttered a yelp as Dean toppled them into the back of the Impala, flailing wildly as he fell, and then clinging to Dean. "Don' say I don' need you. My Dean." He wound his arms around his brother and pulled him close, then frowned. "Dude, you got a gun in your pocket, or you happy to see me?"
Dean was squirming against Sam, and it wasn't helping any that his brother was squirming as well. It wasn't helping his erection one bit, and of course, Sam just had to point it out.
"A gun," Dean lied, planting one hand on the seat as he pushed up, a knee resting between Sam's parted legs for balance, so he could push away. "You need me like you need a hole in your head."
"Got one." Sam was giggling softly now, clinging to Dean like a limpet as his brother tried to get free. "Got a big hole in my head. 'S a cakehole." This seemed to be very funny to Sam in his state of inebriation. "Need you like I need my cakehole."
He pulled Dean down against him again and then, for good measure, wrapped his legs around his brother as well as his arms.
Dean dropped back down, closing his eyes tightly, because he didn't want to feel the way he was feeling. He knew that he shouldn't be reacting the way that he was, but the goddamn, little, tall bastard under him wasn't helping any, paralytic as he was.
There was a sloppy grin on Dean’s face as he turned his head towards Sam, "You are a cakehole!" He could feel Sam's hips move, and though he knew it wasn’t intentional it was rubbing him just the right way. He reached up, grabbing a hand full of hair, jerking Sam's head back, "I can't do this, Sammy," he breathed. "Not like this."
"Can' do what?" Sam still clung to Dean, but now he was attempting to sit up and getting horribly tangled in his brother's limbs as he did so. "You're pullin' my hair, dude. Hurtin' me."
He blinked at Dean, his eyes big and wide, as if he couldn't believe his brother would do such a thing. "'m jus' not good enough, am I? 'M not Dad, an' I'm jus' useless. I'm sorry."
Dean released Sam, "Damn it, Sammy.” His anger showed in his voice as he growled, and he tried even harder to push away, "Let me go. It's not right, that's all. It's not because of Dad."
Sam didn’t comply, he merely looked at his brother, puppy dog expression on his face, the one thing that Dean had never been able to resist.
"Y'er drunk, Sammy," Dean paused, casting about for an escape route, then, giving up, he surged in, giving Sam a deep kiss, exhaling into him as he dragged his lips down along Sam's jaw and then to his ear where he nuzzled him, sighing against his ear.
"I can't, Sammy, I want to but I can't," He closed his eyes tightly, "God, Sammy, I love you but I can't... stop pushing you away. I can't lose you like I lost Dad. Not because of it."
The kiss made Sam shiver. He'd been relaxing his grip, but now he reached again to cling to Dean.
"Don' wan' you to push me away." He smirked. "Much better to kiss me. Nice to kiss me." He aimed a clumsy kiss at Dean's mouth and landed it half on and half off. "Damn. Missed!" he mumbled, sliding his own mouth along until he could connect with Dean's. "Wan' to kiss you too. Not gonna lose me, cos you 'n me're gonna kick asses! Everyone's asses gon' get kicked!"
He was still trying to get away, but Dean was finding his efforts becoming less and less real. Sam’s kiss was clumsy, but Dean didn't pull away, though in his mind, he knew he should. The next kiss was on target, and they exchanged their breath as they explored each other’s mouths. Dean trembled and felt the strain in his pants getting worse.
Damn Sam.
Reaching fingers back in Sam's hair, Dean growled, and when he gripped those dark locks, he pulled Sam's head back not to move it away, but so his brother’s throat was exposed to permit Dean's mouth to ravish it.
Dean moved against Sam, rubbing his erection through tight jeans.
"Sam," He lifted his head and started to kiss Sam all over again, when he heard a noise in the junkyard.
Dean's head whipped around, trying to look over his shoulder. His heart was beating fast and he got a little dizzy from doing so, the whiskey fogging his brain once again.
He pushed away from Sam, pulling from his brother to stand, looking around. He turned left and right, looking into the darkness. It seemed as though the sound that had disturbed them was merely the settling of metal as it cooled after the heat of the day, but the initial rush had left them, and they were both feeling uneasy now.
Sam felt his head whirling. He hung onto Dean as he pulled himself to standing, leaning against the Impala to look around with a frown. "Should go in, I s'pose," he murmured. "Don' want the demon t' get you."
Sam tried to stand upright and staggered a little, then grabbed Dean's hand and started to tow him back towards the house. "Got to go to bed. We'll be safe there, 'cos the house 's got protec... protec... 'S all right. Bobby'll watch an' he won' let our li'l drunk asses get hurt."
Dean looked back to Sam when he mentioned the Demon. His expression was hard to read, and he couldn’t even decide himself if he was feeling worry, fear, or if he was just ready for battle.
Upon Sam's pull, Dean stumbled forward, then followed to keep his brother upright and stop him from falling flat on his face. "Best," he muttered in walking beside him, picking his way through.
As they reached the house, Dean tripped on the stair, and found Sam’s hand catching him to prevent him from falling. "Damn," he muttered.
Bobby opened the door. "Hey boys, wondered where you... whew!" He waved his hand before him as Sam got close. "You guys been sucking gas from the cars?"
"Something like that," Dean answered as he got close enough for the fumes to hit too.
Bobby helped Dean as he guided Sam into his room, "You boys get to bed. Gonna have one hell of a hammer hitting your heads in the morning."
"Me 'n Deano, we drinkin' t' Dad, cos he w's the... the fuckin' best!" Sam swayed in front of Dean and Bobby, and slowly turned pale. "Think I had too much t' drink. Don' feel so good."
For a moment or two, Sam stood looking at Dean in mute appeal, and then he lurched forward. "Do need you, Deano. Tell'm, Bobby. Tell 'm how much I need 'm, 'cos he don't b'lieve me." Stumbling to where Dean was standing, he flung his arms around Dean's neck once more and leant there, apparently bent on remaining where he was for the foreseeable future.
Bobby looked at Dean and then back at Sam. "Boy, you hurl on my floor; you can bank on cleaning it up in the morning."
Dean looked at Bobby for help, but the old hunter just shook his head and gave a laugh. "C’mon, bed for you."
Dean started walking Sam in and got his brother to the bed, leaning down and nearly falling as well.
Bobby walked over, and started to take Sam's shoes off for him. "Deano?"
"Shud'up," Dean tried to worm his way loose.
Giggling, Sam allowed Bobby to remove his trainers and released Dean, only to grab hold of his hand and pull him down to sit on the bed next to him. "Don' let 'im. He can't call you Deano. Tha'... that's my name for you."
He closed his eyes for a moment, and then began to struggle up again. "Gon' go visit the... the li'l boy's room. Feel... not good."
As he rose from the bed, Bobby reached under one arm, and Dean got back up to help lift his brother and guide him to the bathroom, "Dude, I'm not holdin' yer hair," Dean commented as he succeeding in getting Sam into it and released him.
"Deano?" Bobby looked at Dean again.
"Don't ask." Dean leaned against the door frame.
"You hold your liquor like your..." Bobby cut off for a moment.
"I'm surprised he's not doing karaoke," Dean nodded to Sam.
"He does, he’s sleeping outside."
Sam had slumped to his knees by the toilet bowl and was currently engaged in turning himself inside out as he vomited up the half pint or so of whiskey he'd drunk. When he was done, he continued to slump, exhausted. His earlier good mood had vanished, and now all he could think of was the fact that his brother wanted to leave him - wanted him to go away and somehow pretend that none of this had happened. Tears rolled down his cheeks again, and he sat, head on his forearm, allowing his grief to take him.
Dean turned his head back to where Sam still crouched and then moved over, getting a washcloth wet before handing it down to his brother. "Here, little bro," he whispered and placed his arms around Sam so he could whisper in his ear, "Let's get you to bed. I'll stay with you," he breathed, starting to lift him.
"Need help, Deano?" Bobby joked.
"I got him," Dean answered, pulling Sam to his feet.
"Alright, holler if you need anything," Bobby headed out, glancing back from the door before closing it.
Dean got Sam up and led him over to the bed. "C’mon," he murmured, sitting Sam down and tugging at his shirt to get it off.
His brother's gentle hands on him made Sam cry all the more, and he sat forlornly, tears dripping from his cheeks as he allowed Dean to remove his shirt and then, with a little difficulty, his jeans. His head had cleared a little following his session with the toilet bowl, and he suddenly realized exactly what an idiot he must seem.
"Don't blame you for wanting to see the back of me," he slurred. "'M an idiot."
"I'll get me a tee shirt that says I'm with stupid, okay," Dean got Sam's pants off, and then pushed him to lie back under the covers. Dean had made a promise to his father before he died that he would take care of Sam, but that was only one of the many reasons he was tucking his brother into bed.
Dean pulled his own dirty shirt and shoes off, before he climbed up onto the bed behind Sam and pulled his brother to him, the way he always had when they were kids.
Sam didn't know what time it was when he woke up, but his head was splitting, his bladder was so full that it ached, and his mouth tasted like the bottom of a birdcage. He suppressed a moan, feeling the heavy body that lay against him, arm warm and loose around his middle.
"Dean..." he breathed.
Sliding out from the embrace, he lurched to the bathroom to empty his bladder and rinse his mouth, and then to the kitchen, where he found himself a bottle of water and drank it thirstily.
Stumbling back to his bed, he did his best to slip back into Dean's embrace.
Dean was sleeping soundly, the drunken stupor he’d fallen into had helped him stay that way, secure in the knowledge that they were safe in this place. Bobby had made sure of that for them.
Sam getting up went unnoticed, but when he came back, Dean jerked away and blinked. "Huh? What?" He rolled then fell out of the small bed, landing on his chest. Groaning, he pushed up, holding his head as he peeked over the bed. "Sammy?" he whispered. "What time is it?" he asked, rubbing his hand through his hair then stumbling up to go to the bathroom. He was in a bad way, with a dry mouth, a greenish tinge to his face and tired eyes.
"Dunno," mumbled Sam, watching Dean as he headed out of the room. "'Bout three, I think. Dean, you comin' back?" Sam was almost tempted to follow his brother into the bathroom, but realized just how silly that would be and rolled to sit on the edge of the bed to wait for his return.
"In the morning?" Dean called back as he zipped his pants back up and washed his hands, rinsing his cotton wool-flavored, dry mouth out as well before wandering back to see Sam sitting on the bed. "Now what kind of question is that? Am I comin' back." Dean rolled his eyes as he moved closer.
He dropped down beside Sam, the bed making a noise and looked over at his brother. "You still look tired, go back to sleep, Sammy."
Lying back against the headboard, Sam reached for his brother and pulled him closer. "We're both tired," he whispered. "But I want to tell you something."
He paused. Now he'd started, he didn't know how to say the things he needed to. Finally, he bent his head to press his lips against Dean's, wondering if Dean would kiss him back or punch him out.
Moving up to lean next to his brother, Dean stared into the darkness for a long while before turning his head to Sam, having to really listen to his brother’s softly spoken words. He was about to ask what Sam was going to say, when Sam paused, and something in Dean made him hold his tongue. The battle on his little brother's face was clear. Dean could appreciate the need to search for just the right words, and he could see that Sam looked as if he’d been dropped in the middle of a forest and told to find his way out.
Dean would have found it amusing, the way he often did with Sam, however any thoughts were whisked away from him as his lanky brother kissed him. Dean felt his insides tighten, and he knew then and there that he should pull back. He didn't. Instead, he returned the kiss.
He pulled away slowly, his eyes looking up to Sam, "We shouldn't, Sammy," he whispered.
"It's what I want." Sam winced. Dean already thought he was selfish, and that wouldn't help. "It's what you want too. I could feel." He turned to look at Dean, big-eyed in the glimmer of moonlight peeking in through the thin curtains at the window. "You're everything to me now, Dean. There's nothing else, no other reason for living. I need you to get by. If you leave me, then there won't be anything left."
He lifted his hand to slide it down over Dean's cheek, thumb caressing the fullness of his brother's lower lip. "I want you - I want us to be together."
Dean looked down, because it was what he’d wanted, for too damn long. He’d always scolded himself for getting excited when Sam would touch him in a perfectly innocent way, feeling that touch all through his body and having to fight (from) getting a hard-on. And now, now that touch was having its effect, and this time it seemed that Sam didn't want him to fight it.
Dean gazed at his brother; Sam's thumb felt as light upon him as a whisper. He reached up, closing fingers around Sam's wrist, "You will always have me, Sammy. That's not gonna change no matter how far apart we are." He was trying to give his brother reasons, trying to give assurance.
He leaned in, getting closer, his head tipping while he raised a hand to rest at the side of Sam's neck. He knew that he should just kiss his cheek and let it be and not fall into this, but he also knew that it wasn't going to happen.
Dean touched his lips to his brother's once again, but this time he poured his emotions out, leaning more and more into Sam as he deepened the kiss, fingers sliding up into the younger man's hair, but this time they weren't gripping, they were caressing, pulling his brother closer to him.
The caress was unexpected; (and) Sam had half expected a blow. When Dean's hand twined into his hair he gasped, and as Dean's soft mouth met his own, his lips were parted, eager. Sam closed his eyes, the better to savor the taste, the feel of his lover, his brother. His own hands slid along the muscled planes of Dean's back, one creeping up to fondle his brother's neck, and the other slipping down to cup one firm, rounded buttock as his tongue invaded Dean's mouth, slick and wet, to tease and explore.
He thought that his insides might be melting, and he knew for sure that he was aroused, needy in a way that was more urgent than anything he'd ever experienced. He hadn't made love - or even wanted sex - since he'd seen Jess's immolation on the ceiling, and the desire for Dean hit him like a freight train, all the pent up love and longing he'd ever felt slamming through him as he held Dean against him and wondered just how they would survive.
Dean's mouth worked against Sam's, teasing, exploring, loving. He sighed into the kiss, as if that sigh could release all the tension from his body that was pressed so tightly against his brother. He moved his hand, sliding it down Sam's back to feel his muscles, letting his fingers wander along his spine.
Sam wasn't wearing as many clothes as he was, so when Dean’s hand reached the top of Sam's underwear, he could feel every inch of his brother, and he was almost preternaturally aware that Sam’s cock was pressed against his thigh.
He pulled back to let them both breathe, but he didn't stop kissing, instead working his mouth over Sam's chin, along his jaw and down to his neck, feeling the prickle of whiskers that needed shaving. Teeth pulled at the soft, tender skin upon Sam's neck, tugging at it just a little before he let it go. Fingers worked along the band of Sam's underwear, exploring and testing to see if his brother was going to object.
All of his life, Sam had known the touch of Dean's hands against his skin. Dean had bathed him, dressed him, fed him and played with him since before he could walk. Occasionally, Dean's hand had meted out summary discipline to him as well, and Sam knew that touch almost as well as he knew his own.
As Dean's fingers slid in delicate inquiry down and below the waistband of his boxer briefs, Sam pushed in against him, his own hand ghosting around to start unfastening the button holding Dean's jeans closed.
His hand was shaking, and he moaned, feeling as if he was about to enter totally uncharted territory. Sam wished he could see Dean other than as a silhouette in the scant moonlight and wished he could watch his brother's eyes as he began to touch him, claim him for his own.
He urged Dean's lips close again, seeking out his mouth and sucking on it before pulling away with a gasp. "I've never..." he mumbled. "Do you know what to do?"
Dean lifted his head, his mouth closing over Sam's. While Sam wanted the lights on, Dean was perfectly fine with them being off and it being dark. It eased the guilt that had already settled in the growing pit in his stomach. This is incest. This is my brother. This was the man he had taken care of all his life, and here he was, trying to get down his underwear like some sick pervert.
Right now, Dean couldn't think of that. Didn't want to.
Gazing into the dark, he shook his head, "You caught me, Sammy. I'm still a virgin at this kind of thing." He shoved his hand down Sam's underwear, gripping his ass and pulled Sam closer to him, feeling the covered erection scrape against his jeans.
Inside his head, Dean was wondering just how hard it could be? He’d been the lucky recipient of many blowjobs, and remembering how good that always felt, he thought that maybe he could do that for Sam? With his plan in place, Dean moved over his brother and started working his way down Sam's chest.
Authors: art_of_mayhem and candygramme
Rated: NC17
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Spoilers: For “In my Time of Dying” and “Everybody Loves a Clown”
Wordcount: 18,443
Disclaimer: Dean and his Sam belong to Eric Kripke and Supernatural. We own nothing, and we are doing this for love rather than money.
Author’s notes: "I'm worried about you, Dean. Don't you get that?" Sam spread his hands, helplessly. When next he spoke, he sounded much younger than his twenty four years. "You're destroying the things you love, and I don't want you to."
This was too big to post in one lump, so I've cut it in half.
Sam felt totally inadequate. He felt as if the entire world had lurched sideways and left him standing on empty space, and it seemed to have a distressing need to do that these days. First Jess had been taken, and then his father, and now it seemed as though Dean was about to fold.
The world had always seemed so secure to him. Dean was his rock. There had always been Dean; even when he had been away at Stanford, Sam knew that Dean was there for him, and that some day if he needed to, he would be able to call on his brother. Behind Dean, the solid presence, the bedrock of his existence, his father had stood, an overwhelming being, who made the world right just by living, broad, strong and unstoppable.
Sure, Sam had fought for his own independence. He had seen Dean give himself up in the service of John Winchester, and had struggled to stop the same thing happening to him. And now, John was gone, leaving an empty void, and Dean was so remote, so changed, that Sam couldn't reach him, even when they were side by side.
He didn't know what to do. He'd tried. He'd bared his soul to Dean, and it seemed as if he'd wasted his time. He'd turned away to go back into the house and brood, and he was walking away when he heard the clang of metal on metal.
Shocked, he turned around, only to see Dean destroying his beloved car with a crowbar.
"What the fuck? Stop that! Dean! Stop it right now."
Dean stood at bay on the dirt, chest heaving, teeth clenched tight, and eyes stinging from sweat and unshed tears. His throat was tight, his hands vibrated from the metal to metal contact as he stared at his car. The hole in the trunk was irreparable, much like the hole left in Dean's heart. It was gaping and bleeding, and Dean wasn't sure it would ever stop.
He glared up at his brother, swallowing the lump in his throat. "WHAT?" he snapped. "First you don't want me touching the damn car, and then all of a sudden you’re worried about it?" He stepped back and turned away to grab a rag, wiping his hands.
"I'm worried about you, Dean. Don't you get that?" Sam spread his hands, helplessly. When next he spoke, he sounded much younger than his twenty four years. "You're destroying the things you love, and I don't want you to."
Dean looked at the car, eyes dead. "It wasn't mine."
He turned and threw the rag upon it before grabbing his shirt and pushing past Sam, then stopped, turning back. "What about what I want?" Looking away, he kept walking back toward Bobby's house. He needed a drink, and he knew Bobby had whiskey in the house. Hopefully there would be a few full bottles.
"What is that, Dean? What do you want? Just tell me, and I'll give it to you, if I can." Sam followed him, tears in his eyes blurring his vision. "Don't shut me out; talk to me."
Dean stopped then and whirled on Sam. "I want you to leave me the hell alone. I want you to stop asking me if I'm okay. I..." He allowed his fists to unclench. "I want a fucking drink," he added, more quietly.
Now Dean thought he understood why their father drank after their mother's death. Dean could remember just sitting there, watching dad from around a corner. He could recall seeing his dad's head droop, seeing his face look so different.
So empty.
Dean pulled away from Sam and started off again as his father's last words to him echoed in his head.
"Yeah, go on,” growled Sam, bitterly. "Drown yourself in a bottle, because that's what he did. You tell me that he and I were too alike, but I'll tell you, Dean, I never yet needed to drown my sorrows in a welter of self pity. Not like him. Not like you."
Sam turned on his heel and stalked away from his brother, feeling as if he'd somehow lost his only friend.
Dean's fist closed tightly again, and he trembled. His breath caught in his chest as if he had been punched. In a way he had been. Sam's words struck him hard, knocking the wind from him. Dean turned in looking over his shoulder seeing the retreating backside of his brother.
His brother.
His friend.
Dean looked away, wondering when he and Sam had reached this point. When had they started pushing away from each other? Then, suddenly, he knew. It had been the moment his father had leaned down to him and whispered in his ear.
Dean felt his chest tighten once again. He turned back, knowing Sam was out of earshot, "Don't leave me, Sammy," he whispered into the wind.
Sam had headed back to where the Impala, with its ruined trunk, stood waiting. He understood Dean's distress, but he didn't know how to reach him, and that hurt almost as much as their father's death itself.
Sam wasn't like Dean; he had no real mechanical aptitude, but he did the only thing he could think of under the circumstances. He grabbed the wrench and set about taking the damaged lid of the trunk off the car, and then went to find another to replace it with from the countless dead cars that littered Bobby's lot.
Dean found himself a bottle. A glass. And soon found himself sitting outside again on a dusty hood. He hadn't opened the bottle, just stared at the glass as the sunlight reflected off it.
Everything seemed to have been taken out of him; he felt empty and drained. Sam was the only bright spot he could look to, but even he had changed with the death of their father, and Dean wondered who he was any more.
It was as if the wind that had been constant in their lives, carrying them before it, giving them direction with only a few storms, had turned into a hurricane. Not only stirring up the air but everything else below as well.
He set the glass down and stared at the bottle. He turned it around, the light passing through the brown liquid. He just couldn't bring himself to open it right then; he had seen his father drink, and even Sam had once said maybe if he’d drunk a little less things would have been different, better.
Dean got to his feet, grabbing the glass as well. He headed back toward the Impala then stopped as he noticed the trunk lid that he’d damaged was missing. He blinked for a moment as he spotted Sam carrying another black one towards the Impala.
Dean walked over, "Here, I'll trade you." He held out the empty glass and still unopened bottle.
"Put it down there," grunted Sam, still toting the large piece of metal. "Help me put this on, and then we'll both have a drink when we're done." Sam was staring over Dean's shoulder, afraid to meet Dean's eyes in case he broke down, determined to keep it together for as long as Dean did. "You can make sure I put it on the right way up, okay?"
Dean's arms dropped as if a sudden weight was placed on them. He moved away, putting the glass and bottle down then went over to join Sam by the car. He grabbed the wrench and screws.
He took one end from Sam, and the pair of them lifted it on and put it into place, lining it up. As he put the screws into position, Dean closed the trunk to make sure it lined up correctly before tightening the bolt, and, despite his misgivings, he let Sam do the other side.
From the house, Bobby watched the two brothers and sighed softly. He only hoped they would be able to hold it together.
Sam concentrated on his side of the trunk, watching Dean's sure fingers tightening the nuts, trying to remember how he did it so that he didn't make more of an idiot of himself than he usually did when faced with machinery. Slowly tightening his own side of the trunk, his hand slipped, and he cut it on the sharp edge, but he carried on, somehow feeling that, if they could only get this into place it would bring the two of them together again.
When at last it was fastened on he was dirty and disheveled, but the car looked as good as it had before Dean had taken the crowbar to it. Turning to his brother, he spread his hands. "Okay, so now we drink - together. You want to take the glass? I can go get another."
Dean reached into his pocket, pulling a rag out and grabbed(ing) Sam's hand. The blood was welling up, but at least the cut wasn't deep. He grabbed the bottle and opened it, pouring some on the rag, "I'll take the bottle, you can have the glass," he answered, busy as he concentrated on wrapping Sam's hand.
"You were always clumsy around the car." Dean spoke quietly as he stepped back from Sam, reaching for the glass to pour Sam a drink. He handed it over before leaning against the newly repaired trunk to take a drink for himself.
The whiskey was smoky and mellow, and Sam took a good mouthful, coughing slightly as it went down. "Here's to Dad," he said. "He should be here, but since he isn't, we'll just have to drink it for him."
He clinked his glass to Dean's bottle and took another sip. "You remember that clown? How old was I? About eight, I guess. Man, I was so scared of that sucker. Dad thought it was funny, the bastard."
Dean didn't say anything; he couldn't, and he didn't even want to. He really didn't want to talk about their dad. "Clowns should have been the least of your worries, dude; that’s why. He wasn't the only one to think it was funny, either," he managed at last. "If I recall, you also slept in my bed for a month after. Then there was the monster in your closet."
Dean took another drink.
"Yeah, I had nightmares about that friggin' jerk and his balloons for weeks after that. I was fine ‘til he stuck his face into mine and honked his nose at me." Sam shook his head as he drained his glass and held it out for more. "And I swear to god that there was a monster in the closet - I'm sure I saw it. I remember telling dad about it, and he gave me that stupid gun. Dude, what kind of man gives a nine year old a 45?"
Dean looked over at Sam, "You really have to ask that?" Dean poured some more of the fiery spirit into Sam's glass before drinking again.
Staring into the bottle again as if it would reveal the secrets of the universe to him, Dean frowned. "Sam," he began. "Dad knew you loved him. And even if you didn't, it didn't matter because he loved you."
"You telling me you think I didn't love Dad?" Sam set his glass down on the ground and rubbed his forehead. "Of course I loved him; how could you think otherwise? It's just that he didn't see me as a person - he saw me the same way as he saw you - as a weapon he could use. If I hadn't fought for what I wanted, I wouldn't have stood a chance of being a person in my own right. I always had the feeling that he didn't care about what we wanted."
He drained his glass and held it out again. "Hit me," he murmured. "Fill it up and tell me what you want, Dean. I wanna know."
Dean poured more into Sam's glass. "I meant you thinking Dad thinking you didn't love him. But Dad did the best he could, and he didn't see you that way. Why do you think he pushed me the hardest? Because he knew I would have to be the one to protect you when he wasn't there." He fell silent for a long moment and then took a deep swig from the bottle, while forming his thoughts into words, then shrugged. "Doesn't matter what I want."
"Of course it fucking matters. It matters to me, or I wouldn't have asked you." Sam frowned. "So don't give me that. Tell me what you want. Tell me, Dean - and while you're at it, tell me why you and Dad both think I can't protect myself."
"Why does it matter so much now what I want? Huh? Didn't before. It was always what you or Dad wanted," snapped Dean, taking another drink. More was poured into Sam's glass, and his brother matched him, drink for drink. "I want Dad back. I want us all to be together. Everything to be like it was." Dean drank again and didn’t say that he wished his father hadn't told him what he had. Which brought him to the vexed question of why Sam needed to be protected. "We knew you could take care of yourself, Sam. It's the other things that you don't see coming that we do. Sammy, that thing, that demon wants you. But it's not going to happen."
"You're right, it's not." Sam looked belligerent as he lifted the glass to his lips again. "You don't care about me anyway. I'm just a chore that Dad left for you to do." Easy tears sprang to his eyes. "You complain because I had what I wanted. I fought to get that for myself, but I don't have it now, do I? So why are you still so fucking jealous?"
Dean turned his head to Sam. "You don't get it, because you’re so damn, fucking selfish." Dean pushed away from the car and stood before Sam. "Everything I did was for you and Dad. I didn't complain once. I gave up everything I ever wanted to do, because of you two, and all I fucking was to Dad was a babysitter. And to you... I came and got you from school, because I didn't want to find dad alone. I told you that. But you... you just wanted the hunt to end. Kill the demon and go back to school. Now after Dad's death, all that just changes. You two butted heads, screamed at each other all the time. I've been trying to get you back into this, and all it takes is Dad's death?"
"If anyone doesn't care... it's you, Sam."
“You don’t play fair!" Sam clenched his fists, angry now. "I never asked you to give up everything you wanted. You did it. I didn't get a choice in the matter, did I; how could I? I was only a baby. Now you’re blaming me? How the fuck do you manage to work that out?"
He drew in a deep breath. "And I came with you to find Dad. I came with you, and I'm still with you. But you, you keep making up rules that only you know, and woe betide me, if I happen to break them."
He took a drink from his glass, angry spots of red on his cheeks indicating his anger. "And yeah, we butted heads. The last time was because he wanted to fuck around summoning the demon when you were dying, as if you didn't matter. If he could summon the demon, why didn't he do it years ago and put us all out of our misery? We could both have had the lives we wanted then."
"You weren't a baby all your life, Sam and the only reason is because Dad and I made sure you were safe. Because we couldn't stand to lose you. Because we loved you." Dean backed up as Sam took his drink.
"You still don't see it do you, Sam. Did you bother to think Dad didn't because he wasn't ready? Because he didn't want to bring it to him till he knew he could kill it?"
"Well, he didn't, did he?" Sam was crying now, tears coursing down his cheeks unnoticed. "He summoned it, and it killed him, and he didn't give a flying fuck about you, or me, or any of it."
He dropped to the ground, suddenly no longer caring about facing off with Dean, and sat leaning his back against the door panel. "I know he summoned the fucking thing. Bobby told me what the stuff he wanted was for, and anyway, where's the Colt that's supposed to be our one way of killing the cursed thing? I know what he did."
Dean stood looking down at Sam. He then turned and sighed as he sat down. "What did he do, Sam?" He looked at him, his face stricken. "What do you think he did?"
Sighing, Sam looked at his brother. His eyes were beginning to grow hazy with the alcohol he'd consumed, and his words were starting to slur a little, but he leant forward earnestly and began to talk. "He gave me a list of stuff to get him, and told me it was for banishing demons. Bobby took one look at it and asked me why Dad was trying to summon one. He lied to me, Dean. He did. I yelled at him for wanting to fuck around with demons while you were at death's door. You died, once, I saw it. They had to revive you, but he didn't care. He didn't care; he just... went off... and did it."
The last few words were muffled by sobs, and he put his hands to his face, suddenly feeling naked under Dean's hostile gaze.
"Banishing or protection?" Dean mused. Of course, what difference did it make? Sam was right; their father had lied. "You know dad has his..." Dean sat down in the dirt as well. "He... he didn't try to..." He took another deep drink. He was tempted to tell Sam what their father had whispered to him, but... Dean looked up, surprised by the pools of black shadow that surrounded them, the sun had long since set and neither brother had noticed. "He was a bastard at times wasn't he? All he cared about was revenge."
"I wish I knew what he cared for." Sam shrugged, tilted his glass to his lips and sipped the liquor, wincing as he swallowed. "I mean, why's he go on 'bout protecting me an' takin' care o' me, an' he never tol' me t' take care o' you. Din't say, 'take care o 'Dean,' an' I wan' ask him why."
Dean stared out at the yard with its unfamiliar shapes and looming hulks of metal before looking down again, the rim of the bottle glistening from his spit and liquor mixed. He tipped it back up to his lips, feeling the burn as he drank a healthy swallow. His head was already swimming, and the drunken fog had settled in.
"He cared, Sammy," Dean paused, "You were his baby. His youngest. I... I didn't need protecting 'cause I always did what he said. Asked. I wasn't like you, Sam." So what if he’d nearly died... twice. Dean had always known that Sam... his brother had been special. Not just because of his abilities but special to his father for some other reason as well.
God he was so mixed up. He suddenly banged the back of his head on the car in frustration.
"Don't!" Sam's head jerked around to study his brother. "Please don' hurt yourself any more, Dean." He reached out, fingers sliding into short, soft hair to rub the place where he'd banged it. "Don't wan' you to hurt y'self. Don' want you to hurt th' car. Love you. We're all we got left, now. Jus' you, me, n' the car."
Dean pulled his head away a bit, the pain had felt good, and it gave him the sharpness he needed to notice that his brother was drunk.
He pushed up. "I'm fine." Reaching down, Dean hooked an arm under Sam and pulled him up. "Let's not sit on the dirt, Back seat is fine." Dean pulled Sam's stumbling form around and guided him into the back seat reflecting wryly that at least he didn't have to open the door for that side.
He climbed in as well, slumping down as he took another drink. "The car... damn fuckin' thing."
"You love the car." Sam was vehement in his assertion. "'S your baby. You can't hurt your baby. Wouldn't be right." He looked forlorn. "You got a car t' love, an' me, I ain't got anythin' any more. Don't got a car, or Jess, or even anythin'. Jus' me."
He sat in silence, turning his glass around and around and then suddenly turned to Dean. "You realize I grew up in thish... this car? S'my home. S'our home."
Dean really wanted to reach over and punch his little brother for his words. Instead his face tightened up in anger, and he turned his head towards Sam to speak to him.
"That's a bunch of shit, and you know it, you little pissant. You got me. You got me to love but... I'm not Dad. I'm not Jess. I'm nothin' apparently." He pushed out of the back seat, nearly falling onto his ass, "S'yer home, well it's perfect. J'st like us. Broken. I'm left to pick up the fuckin' pieces."
"You don' love me. M' jus' a thing t'you - some duty thing that you gotta protect. People don' love things, do they? They love people." Sam followed Dean out of the car and stood swaying before him. "You resent me. You jus' want me t'do what you want, an' tha's all, an' I don' know anythin' any more."
Dean stared at his brother. He didn't know how long, possibly just a few breaths. Then the world seemed to move in slow motion. Dean's fist drew back, and before he could stop the action, Dean felt it connect with his brother's jaw.
Dean backed up, looking down at his brother, "You bastard. Yer j'st like... like HIM!" He shouted the last words. "Only thinkin of yerself. Poor me. It's all 'bout me. Protect Sammy, he said. Not, I love you son. J'st take care of yer ass."
Staggering back, Sam would have fallen if not for the car behind him. As it was, he smacked into it and half stood, half lay against it, feeling his jaw. "But I love you, an' that doesn't fuckin' count, does it? Cos... cos I'm a thing an' not a person t'you. Jus'... a Chinese obligation."
Sam spat a little blood and glared at his brother. "An' you wanna hurt me, so go on, 'f it makes you feel better."
Dean rushed in, pinning Sam to the car, "You know why I did the things I did? Because of you, Sam. BECAUSE OF FUCKIN' YOU! I gave up everything for you the moment I carried you out of that house. I promised I would always protect you, but you... you didn't care. Didn't even see. Didn't even bother to see. Not you. Not DAD! You two... it was just what you wanted. But what about ME!"
"The first chance you got you ditched me. Left me. Pfft... gone." Dean stepped back, his hands waving. "Dad... same thing. No goodbye, son, see you around, jus’ gone. Now all I have left is his damn, fucking car. And the only reason he gave it to me was to get rid of me. But what do you fuckin' care? What do you care it's all I have left of Dad to hold onto?"
"Get off me!" Sam shook his head, trying to clear it. "You're full of shit! How the fuck could I see anything when I was a baby? How the fuck could I see anything but you? You did everythin' an' I didn't know any different, except other kids had moms an' houses an' stuff, an' I couldn't."
Sam shoved Dean, pushing him back. "I never asked you to do it for me, an' if you didn't even want to, why did you bother?" He was shaking with anger now, and he pulled his own hand into a fist, ready to strike out. "And why do I have to follow you to prove that I love you? Why couldn't we both do what we wanted? You wanna hunt. I wanna go to school, but you say if I love you I can't do that. That's how you see it, isn't it?"
Dean stumbled back, hand going back to the car to steady his legs. He was still glaring at his brother,
"I did it because I loved you, asshole," Dean snapped back. "I did... You know what, forget it. Just forget it. Do what you want, Sam."
Dean turned to walk away, but then whirled around, grabbed his drunken brother by the front of his shirt, fingers twisting in it, before he jerked him close and kissed him, hard. Dean's mouth worked against Sam's, letting every emotion he’d tried so hard to keep deep inside him show.
Just as quickly, he pulled away, pushing his brother back as he did so. He glared at Sam, before grabbing the bottle from the ground and began to walk away.
"What the fuck?" Sam pushed away from the car, reached to grab Dean's shoulder and almost knocked them both off their feet. "Wha' you do that for?" he asked, looking utterly baffled. "Don' leave me 'lone. Need m'big brother."
Arms wide, Sam enveloped Dean in an all-encompassing hug. "You 'n me, Dean. 'Sall we got."
"Damnit, Sam," Dean grumbled and tried to keep them both from falling over. He made a face as Sam wrapped his arms around him, squirming a little as he tried to break free of Sam’s hold. "Let go of me." Dean tried to push Sam away, but the two ended up falling over, driving the air from his lungs as Dean ended up under his gigantic brother. "Dude, get off me."
Dean tried to push Sam off. He knew he shouldn't have kissed Sam, but hopefully his little brother would be too drunk and hung over to remember it. "Okay, okay, enough of the hugging already! You’re gonna use up my quota for the year."
"Don' wanna." Sam continued to squeeze Dean against him, long arms wrapped tightly around him, pinning his arms to his sides, still swaying slightly as Dean struggled. "'F I let you go, you're gonna run an' leave me 'lone. Don' wanna be all alone."
A stray tear trickled down Sam's cheek and plopped onto his brother's shoulder. "You 'n me, Deano. We're th' two musketeers. Don' got anyone else. 'Sides, you 'n me rock, wi' real rock salt. Tha's good stuff, right there."
Dean had his head turned away, still making a face, but his struggles had ceased. His arms folded at the elbow, resting his hands upon Sam's side. "In my state, I would be lucky to run." his head bumped Sam's as the two wobbled again, "More like Heckle and Jeckle, Chip and Dale,"
Leaning back, Dean looked at Sam, "Dude, you crying on my shoulder? Don't. Don't cry, Sammy," The last part was spoken very softly.
"But you... you don' love me any more." Sam gazed forlornly at his brother. "Y'mad at me, an' I din' do anythin' wrong."
He made as if to let go of Dean and wobbled alarmingly, grabbing hold of him again in an effort to stay on his feet.
"Don' know how t' stop."
Dean rolled his eyes, about to answer his brother when he felt him wobble. Grabbing him up against him to keep him from falling, Dean crushed their bodies together. He regretted it the moment he did, because he figured that Sam would surely feel the lump in his pants and know that it wasn't his knife or his keys.
"Let's get you into the house, down on your back and sleeping, dude. You'll feel better in the morning."
"Don' wanna sleep," protested Sam. "Wanna stay here an' be with my Deano."
Sam suddenly clapped both hands to Dean's cheeks and applied a huge, smacking kiss to the astonished Dean's lips. "My Deano," he said, looking at his brother with glazed eyes and he teared up all over again. "Don' run away from me. Need you."
Dean blinked as another wave of grogginess from the whiskey tried to wash over him, flinching as his lips received a sloppy, puckered kiss from his brother.
"Sam, I'm not going anywhere and... you don't need me, you never did," Dean whispered out the last part as he tried to shuffle them over closer to the back seat, where he hoped he could possibly get his brother to spread out. His feet shuffled in the dirt ‘til he finally succeeded in getting them where he wanted to be, and he promptly fell forward, sending them both into the back of the car, with him on top.
"Do too need you." Sam was vehement, his long, bony finger pointing up the message by beating a tattoo on Dean's chest. "Need you all the time."
He uttered a yelp as Dean toppled them into the back of the Impala, flailing wildly as he fell, and then clinging to Dean. "Don' say I don' need you. My Dean." He wound his arms around his brother and pulled him close, then frowned. "Dude, you got a gun in your pocket, or you happy to see me?"
Dean was squirming against Sam, and it wasn't helping any that his brother was squirming as well. It wasn't helping his erection one bit, and of course, Sam just had to point it out.
"A gun," Dean lied, planting one hand on the seat as he pushed up, a knee resting between Sam's parted legs for balance, so he could push away. "You need me like you need a hole in your head."
"Got one." Sam was giggling softly now, clinging to Dean like a limpet as his brother tried to get free. "Got a big hole in my head. 'S a cakehole." This seemed to be very funny to Sam in his state of inebriation. "Need you like I need my cakehole."
He pulled Dean down against him again and then, for good measure, wrapped his legs around his brother as well as his arms.
Dean dropped back down, closing his eyes tightly, because he didn't want to feel the way he was feeling. He knew that he shouldn't be reacting the way that he was, but the goddamn, little, tall bastard under him wasn't helping any, paralytic as he was.
There was a sloppy grin on Dean’s face as he turned his head towards Sam, "You are a cakehole!" He could feel Sam's hips move, and though he knew it wasn’t intentional it was rubbing him just the right way. He reached up, grabbing a hand full of hair, jerking Sam's head back, "I can't do this, Sammy," he breathed. "Not like this."
"Can' do what?" Sam still clung to Dean, but now he was attempting to sit up and getting horribly tangled in his brother's limbs as he did so. "You're pullin' my hair, dude. Hurtin' me."
He blinked at Dean, his eyes big and wide, as if he couldn't believe his brother would do such a thing. "'m jus' not good enough, am I? 'M not Dad, an' I'm jus' useless. I'm sorry."
Dean released Sam, "Damn it, Sammy.” His anger showed in his voice as he growled, and he tried even harder to push away, "Let me go. It's not right, that's all. It's not because of Dad."
Sam didn’t comply, he merely looked at his brother, puppy dog expression on his face, the one thing that Dean had never been able to resist.
"Y'er drunk, Sammy," Dean paused, casting about for an escape route, then, giving up, he surged in, giving Sam a deep kiss, exhaling into him as he dragged his lips down along Sam's jaw and then to his ear where he nuzzled him, sighing against his ear.
"I can't, Sammy, I want to but I can't," He closed his eyes tightly, "God, Sammy, I love you but I can't... stop pushing you away. I can't lose you like I lost Dad. Not because of it."
The kiss made Sam shiver. He'd been relaxing his grip, but now he reached again to cling to Dean.
"Don' wan' you to push me away." He smirked. "Much better to kiss me. Nice to kiss me." He aimed a clumsy kiss at Dean's mouth and landed it half on and half off. "Damn. Missed!" he mumbled, sliding his own mouth along until he could connect with Dean's. "Wan' to kiss you too. Not gonna lose me, cos you 'n me're gonna kick asses! Everyone's asses gon' get kicked!"
He was still trying to get away, but Dean was finding his efforts becoming less and less real. Sam’s kiss was clumsy, but Dean didn't pull away, though in his mind, he knew he should. The next kiss was on target, and they exchanged their breath as they explored each other’s mouths. Dean trembled and felt the strain in his pants getting worse.
Damn Sam.
Reaching fingers back in Sam's hair, Dean growled, and when he gripped those dark locks, he pulled Sam's head back not to move it away, but so his brother’s throat was exposed to permit Dean's mouth to ravish it.
Dean moved against Sam, rubbing his erection through tight jeans.
"Sam," He lifted his head and started to kiss Sam all over again, when he heard a noise in the junkyard.
Dean's head whipped around, trying to look over his shoulder. His heart was beating fast and he got a little dizzy from doing so, the whiskey fogging his brain once again.
He pushed away from Sam, pulling from his brother to stand, looking around. He turned left and right, looking into the darkness. It seemed as though the sound that had disturbed them was merely the settling of metal as it cooled after the heat of the day, but the initial rush had left them, and they were both feeling uneasy now.
Sam felt his head whirling. He hung onto Dean as he pulled himself to standing, leaning against the Impala to look around with a frown. "Should go in, I s'pose," he murmured. "Don' want the demon t' get you."
Sam tried to stand upright and staggered a little, then grabbed Dean's hand and started to tow him back towards the house. "Got to go to bed. We'll be safe there, 'cos the house 's got protec... protec... 'S all right. Bobby'll watch an' he won' let our li'l drunk asses get hurt."
Dean looked back to Sam when he mentioned the Demon. His expression was hard to read, and he couldn’t even decide himself if he was feeling worry, fear, or if he was just ready for battle.
Upon Sam's pull, Dean stumbled forward, then followed to keep his brother upright and stop him from falling flat on his face. "Best," he muttered in walking beside him, picking his way through.
As they reached the house, Dean tripped on the stair, and found Sam’s hand catching him to prevent him from falling. "Damn," he muttered.
Bobby opened the door. "Hey boys, wondered where you... whew!" He waved his hand before him as Sam got close. "You guys been sucking gas from the cars?"
"Something like that," Dean answered as he got close enough for the fumes to hit too.
Bobby helped Dean as he guided Sam into his room, "You boys get to bed. Gonna have one hell of a hammer hitting your heads in the morning."
"Me 'n Deano, we drinkin' t' Dad, cos he w's the... the fuckin' best!" Sam swayed in front of Dean and Bobby, and slowly turned pale. "Think I had too much t' drink. Don' feel so good."
For a moment or two, Sam stood looking at Dean in mute appeal, and then he lurched forward. "Do need you, Deano. Tell'm, Bobby. Tell 'm how much I need 'm, 'cos he don't b'lieve me." Stumbling to where Dean was standing, he flung his arms around Dean's neck once more and leant there, apparently bent on remaining where he was for the foreseeable future.
Bobby looked at Dean and then back at Sam. "Boy, you hurl on my floor; you can bank on cleaning it up in the morning."
Dean looked at Bobby for help, but the old hunter just shook his head and gave a laugh. "C’mon, bed for you."
Dean started walking Sam in and got his brother to the bed, leaning down and nearly falling as well.
Bobby walked over, and started to take Sam's shoes off for him. "Deano?"
"Shud'up," Dean tried to worm his way loose.
Giggling, Sam allowed Bobby to remove his trainers and released Dean, only to grab hold of his hand and pull him down to sit on the bed next to him. "Don' let 'im. He can't call you Deano. Tha'... that's my name for you."
He closed his eyes for a moment, and then began to struggle up again. "Gon' go visit the... the li'l boy's room. Feel... not good."
As he rose from the bed, Bobby reached under one arm, and Dean got back up to help lift his brother and guide him to the bathroom, "Dude, I'm not holdin' yer hair," Dean commented as he succeeding in getting Sam into it and released him.
"Deano?" Bobby looked at Dean again.
"Don't ask." Dean leaned against the door frame.
"You hold your liquor like your..." Bobby cut off for a moment.
"I'm surprised he's not doing karaoke," Dean nodded to Sam.
"He does, he’s sleeping outside."
Sam had slumped to his knees by the toilet bowl and was currently engaged in turning himself inside out as he vomited up the half pint or so of whiskey he'd drunk. When he was done, he continued to slump, exhausted. His earlier good mood had vanished, and now all he could think of was the fact that his brother wanted to leave him - wanted him to go away and somehow pretend that none of this had happened. Tears rolled down his cheeks again, and he sat, head on his forearm, allowing his grief to take him.
Dean turned his head back to where Sam still crouched and then moved over, getting a washcloth wet before handing it down to his brother. "Here, little bro," he whispered and placed his arms around Sam so he could whisper in his ear, "Let's get you to bed. I'll stay with you," he breathed, starting to lift him.
"Need help, Deano?" Bobby joked.
"I got him," Dean answered, pulling Sam to his feet.
"Alright, holler if you need anything," Bobby headed out, glancing back from the door before closing it.
Dean got Sam up and led him over to the bed. "C’mon," he murmured, sitting Sam down and tugging at his shirt to get it off.
His brother's gentle hands on him made Sam cry all the more, and he sat forlornly, tears dripping from his cheeks as he allowed Dean to remove his shirt and then, with a little difficulty, his jeans. His head had cleared a little following his session with the toilet bowl, and he suddenly realized exactly what an idiot he must seem.
"Don't blame you for wanting to see the back of me," he slurred. "'M an idiot."
"I'll get me a tee shirt that says I'm with stupid, okay," Dean got Sam's pants off, and then pushed him to lie back under the covers. Dean had made a promise to his father before he died that he would take care of Sam, but that was only one of the many reasons he was tucking his brother into bed.
Dean pulled his own dirty shirt and shoes off, before he climbed up onto the bed behind Sam and pulled his brother to him, the way he always had when they were kids.
Sam didn't know what time it was when he woke up, but his head was splitting, his bladder was so full that it ached, and his mouth tasted like the bottom of a birdcage. He suppressed a moan, feeling the heavy body that lay against him, arm warm and loose around his middle.
"Dean..." he breathed.
Sliding out from the embrace, he lurched to the bathroom to empty his bladder and rinse his mouth, and then to the kitchen, where he found himself a bottle of water and drank it thirstily.
Stumbling back to his bed, he did his best to slip back into Dean's embrace.
Dean was sleeping soundly, the drunken stupor he’d fallen into had helped him stay that way, secure in the knowledge that they were safe in this place. Bobby had made sure of that for them.
Sam getting up went unnoticed, but when he came back, Dean jerked away and blinked. "Huh? What?" He rolled then fell out of the small bed, landing on his chest. Groaning, he pushed up, holding his head as he peeked over the bed. "Sammy?" he whispered. "What time is it?" he asked, rubbing his hand through his hair then stumbling up to go to the bathroom. He was in a bad way, with a dry mouth, a greenish tinge to his face and tired eyes.
"Dunno," mumbled Sam, watching Dean as he headed out of the room. "'Bout three, I think. Dean, you comin' back?" Sam was almost tempted to follow his brother into the bathroom, but realized just how silly that would be and rolled to sit on the edge of the bed to wait for his return.
"In the morning?" Dean called back as he zipped his pants back up and washed his hands, rinsing his cotton wool-flavored, dry mouth out as well before wandering back to see Sam sitting on the bed. "Now what kind of question is that? Am I comin' back." Dean rolled his eyes as he moved closer.
He dropped down beside Sam, the bed making a noise and looked over at his brother. "You still look tired, go back to sleep, Sammy."
Lying back against the headboard, Sam reached for his brother and pulled him closer. "We're both tired," he whispered. "But I want to tell you something."
He paused. Now he'd started, he didn't know how to say the things he needed to. Finally, he bent his head to press his lips against Dean's, wondering if Dean would kiss him back or punch him out.
Moving up to lean next to his brother, Dean stared into the darkness for a long while before turning his head to Sam, having to really listen to his brother’s softly spoken words. He was about to ask what Sam was going to say, when Sam paused, and something in Dean made him hold his tongue. The battle on his little brother's face was clear. Dean could appreciate the need to search for just the right words, and he could see that Sam looked as if he’d been dropped in the middle of a forest and told to find his way out.
Dean would have found it amusing, the way he often did with Sam, however any thoughts were whisked away from him as his lanky brother kissed him. Dean felt his insides tighten, and he knew then and there that he should pull back. He didn't. Instead, he returned the kiss.
He pulled away slowly, his eyes looking up to Sam, "We shouldn't, Sammy," he whispered.
"It's what I want." Sam winced. Dean already thought he was selfish, and that wouldn't help. "It's what you want too. I could feel." He turned to look at Dean, big-eyed in the glimmer of moonlight peeking in through the thin curtains at the window. "You're everything to me now, Dean. There's nothing else, no other reason for living. I need you to get by. If you leave me, then there won't be anything left."
He lifted his hand to slide it down over Dean's cheek, thumb caressing the fullness of his brother's lower lip. "I want you - I want us to be together."
Dean looked down, because it was what he’d wanted, for too damn long. He’d always scolded himself for getting excited when Sam would touch him in a perfectly innocent way, feeling that touch all through his body and having to fight (from) getting a hard-on. And now, now that touch was having its effect, and this time it seemed that Sam didn't want him to fight it.
Dean gazed at his brother; Sam's thumb felt as light upon him as a whisper. He reached up, closing fingers around Sam's wrist, "You will always have me, Sammy. That's not gonna change no matter how far apart we are." He was trying to give his brother reasons, trying to give assurance.
He leaned in, getting closer, his head tipping while he raised a hand to rest at the side of Sam's neck. He knew that he should just kiss his cheek and let it be and not fall into this, but he also knew that it wasn't going to happen.
Dean touched his lips to his brother's once again, but this time he poured his emotions out, leaning more and more into Sam as he deepened the kiss, fingers sliding up into the younger man's hair, but this time they weren't gripping, they were caressing, pulling his brother closer to him.
The caress was unexpected; (and) Sam had half expected a blow. When Dean's hand twined into his hair he gasped, and as Dean's soft mouth met his own, his lips were parted, eager. Sam closed his eyes, the better to savor the taste, the feel of his lover, his brother. His own hands slid along the muscled planes of Dean's back, one creeping up to fondle his brother's neck, and the other slipping down to cup one firm, rounded buttock as his tongue invaded Dean's mouth, slick and wet, to tease and explore.
He thought that his insides might be melting, and he knew for sure that he was aroused, needy in a way that was more urgent than anything he'd ever experienced. He hadn't made love - or even wanted sex - since he'd seen Jess's immolation on the ceiling, and the desire for Dean hit him like a freight train, all the pent up love and longing he'd ever felt slamming through him as he held Dean against him and wondered just how they would survive.
Dean's mouth worked against Sam's, teasing, exploring, loving. He sighed into the kiss, as if that sigh could release all the tension from his body that was pressed so tightly against his brother. He moved his hand, sliding it down Sam's back to feel his muscles, letting his fingers wander along his spine.
Sam wasn't wearing as many clothes as he was, so when Dean’s hand reached the top of Sam's underwear, he could feel every inch of his brother, and he was almost preternaturally aware that Sam’s cock was pressed against his thigh.
He pulled back to let them both breathe, but he didn't stop kissing, instead working his mouth over Sam's chin, along his jaw and down to his neck, feeling the prickle of whiskers that needed shaving. Teeth pulled at the soft, tender skin upon Sam's neck, tugging at it just a little before he let it go. Fingers worked along the band of Sam's underwear, exploring and testing to see if his brother was going to object.
All of his life, Sam had known the touch of Dean's hands against his skin. Dean had bathed him, dressed him, fed him and played with him since before he could walk. Occasionally, Dean's hand had meted out summary discipline to him as well, and Sam knew that touch almost as well as he knew his own.
As Dean's fingers slid in delicate inquiry down and below the waistband of his boxer briefs, Sam pushed in against him, his own hand ghosting around to start unfastening the button holding Dean's jeans closed.
His hand was shaking, and he moaned, feeling as if he was about to enter totally uncharted territory. Sam wished he could see Dean other than as a silhouette in the scant moonlight and wished he could watch his brother's eyes as he began to touch him, claim him for his own.
He urged Dean's lips close again, seeking out his mouth and sucking on it before pulling away with a gasp. "I've never..." he mumbled. "Do you know what to do?"
Dean lifted his head, his mouth closing over Sam's. While Sam wanted the lights on, Dean was perfectly fine with them being off and it being dark. It eased the guilt that had already settled in the growing pit in his stomach. This is incest. This is my brother. This was the man he had taken care of all his life, and here he was, trying to get down his underwear like some sick pervert.
Right now, Dean couldn't think of that. Didn't want to.
Gazing into the dark, he shook his head, "You caught me, Sammy. I'm still a virgin at this kind of thing." He shoved his hand down Sam's underwear, gripping his ass and pulled Sam closer to him, feeling the covered erection scrape against his jeans.
Inside his head, Dean was wondering just how hard it could be? He’d been the lucky recipient of many blowjobs, and remembering how good that always felt, he thought that maybe he could do that for Sam? With his plan in place, Dean moved over his brother and started working his way down Sam's chest.